Chronicle of the Forgotten One
by Ayoshen
Summary: She was born to this world as someone to do something important, but the name - the name, she just couldn't grasp. Emma sealed a bargain with Rumpelstiltskin, learning far too late that all magic came with a price. Evil Queen/Emma's alter ego later on.
1. What's Still Unwritten

**Author's Note: **This story is insane. You have been warned. I'm also trying not to make too many official side characters make an appearance until I'm sure about their fairytale identity, as I want this (and all my other OUAT fics, for that matter) to be as canon-friendly as possible. Mmm what to add. OUAT doesn't belong to me. Emma and Regina are divorced parents who still love each other with all their heart and are in extreme denial. The whole show is a subtextual gay love explosion and brings me back to the times when Xena rocked TV in all her lesbianism. I want to touch the ring Emma wears around her neck for Christmas. Or those glorious, strong arms of hers. Scratch that, I want Emma for Christmas. Also, **English is not my native language.** (I need to get a new catch phrase for this... It's getting old.)

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><p><strong>Prelude: What's Still Unwritten<strong>

Blonde locks rested peacefully on her shoulders, and the image almost visibly collided with an inner struggle hidden behind emerald eyes. "Is this the only way?"

"The one and only, dearie! For as we are all well aware, all magic comes with a price—and you can only erase what's still unwritten!"

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other with a frown. She had been trying to reason with the man behind the bars for what felt like an eternity and was close to her destination; except now, as she neared it, she started to doubt she truly wanted to reach it. "So you can send me into the past, to a time before the curse happens."

"Past, present, future—don't bother me with such petty things! What does it matter? They're all there, in the nick of a moment, tied, untied, and they will all happen, one curse at a time!"

"You're not making any sense!"

"Sense! Sense is an optional quality of words, my dear, quite insignificant; a drone in the nest serving the Queen of Purpose!"

With a sigh, the blonde woman reached out and pulled herself closer to the cage, gripping the bars so tightly her knuckles went pale. "I can't go back. There can't be two of us at the same time."

Mr. Gold – or Rumpelstiltskin, a name Emma took great pride in calling him ever since she had discovered his true identity – beamed with a smile that would so often be seen on his face; the deceiving smile of a trickster. "Very true. How would Miss Swan feel watching a pure, unscarred version of herself grow up alongside those she loved most?" He watched, content, as Emma's jaw clenched and she glared at him, but remained essentially silent. "No need for melodrama, dearie. I'm merely stating the facts and the facts don't work in your favor. I cannot send you to a time before you left in the first place; as I've said, rewriting fate is not my domain. I can only make you appear after your initial disappearance, which, in general terms, is not going to the past, merely proceeding forward to a future in the past. There is only one thing I need from you."

Emma leaned in so that her face was mere inches away from the cold steel, her gaze never straying from Rumplestiltskin's eyes. "What is it?" she asked, though the warning tone of her voice didn't imply a question but a demand that best be obeyed. She didn't flinch when she noticed the twinkle in his eyes. She didn't flinch when he let the arms that had been crossed over his chest hang loosely at his sides. She didn't even flinch when a hand closed itself around her throat in an iron grip, nails digging into the back of her head, and swiftly pulled her closer so that she and her mortal enemy were breathing the same air. The thought made her sick.

"You would bring power to the Unknown with your presence in the Forest. Emma cannot be erased; you need a name. I will give you the freedom of choosing a name that will shape your future."

The blonde gripped his wrists in both her hands to attain some control over the situation, but on the inside, she panicked; she knew what would happen if Rumpelstiltskin found out her name again. She also knew what would happen if he didn't.

Her heart beat like a drum at the thought of one final night of freedom, but there was no time to waste. At last, her voice broke. "What about Henry?"

"The boy will be fine… if you return."

"And if I don't?"

"None of this will have happened outside of your head."

If she ever were to write a memoir, it would no doubt spark much interest among the world's first class psychiatrists. She tried to gulp down the lump in her throat but couldn't. Emma stood still, reflecting on the consequences, her time with Henry, operation Cobra and the heartache of this screwed up future.

"Just call me the Seventh Swan."

She snapped from his grip and stumbled a few steps back, rubbing her neck. The last moment of her life was possibly playing out before her and she was spending it in jail, alone and longing for the comfort of a good sitcom – because the word 'fairytale' had become associated only with raging hatred, viciousness and cruelty. The moment was being stolen from her and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

"The Forgotten One? The second sister to the six swan brothers? And here I thought you weren't one for big family reunions," Gold replied, smirking in all his smugness.

She gave him a cynical smile in return. "Touché. I'm the innocent bystander who was never freed. That way, I'll never forget about my curse. As for you," she hesitated, "nothing will change, will it?"

Rumpelstiltskin's laugh resonated throughout the prison – his, hers, ours. "I look forward to bargaining with you again, Swan."

And just like that, just when there was no time left for second thoughts that were bound to come sooner or later, just when there was no way to look over her shoulder and see the sheriff standing dumbfounded in the doorway, just when she was no longer able to bid this world farewell, she saw the infamous, dying white light in all its glory, collapsed to the ground and then farther into a universe of empty unconsciousness.

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><p>Reality whizzed past, mingling with illusions and disillusions of mankind, and the pressure dropped her to her knees. Colors faded in and out and in again, blindingly saturated at one point, mundanely dimmed the next. Closing her eyes didn't help the least bit. She was so dizzy her stomach performed a barrel roll and had there been any contents in it, they would have surely gotten out the same way they got in. But this was a new beginning, and at least now she knew there was one good point to it.<p>

Cold seeped upward through her fingertips and the palms of her hands and when she opened her eyes again, she found herself lying on the floor. As soon as it stopped spinning, she looked up and around at the walls entrapping her. They were all staring at her, distant and judging as if they were screaming _'What have you done?'_ It felt as if she got any closer, a mere touch would freeze her heart. And they went on and on, forever forming one of thousands of endless hallways in Prince Charming's castle.

The Evil Queen. The sole reasoning behind her presence here. She only had one chance, and she wasn't about to waste it. As she got up on her feet, she felt a slight weight on her back pulling her down. She reached for the object, and there it was – a plain, slim recurve bow made of black walnut with two layers of sinew backing, perfectly designed for its purpose – to shoot in motion at a sure target within a range not too long and deliver the one critical blow before you run for your life.

_"Where are we going?"_

The terrified voice she recognized as Mary Margaret's echoed through the corridor and reminded her of her own and only purpose here.

_"Somewhere horrible."_

Emma didn't waste another second. With the bow in hand, she stormed off towards the hidden voices, reaching for an arrow in the quiver on her back. It was a mistake, a terrible déjà vu, when the glass shattered to pieces, like it had happened before – and it had, she just wasn't there to witness it, yet a part of her told her otherwise – and she knew there was no time – she pulled the bowstring back, the compression making her muscles tense, and let go of the arrow.

The next thing she saw was the face of evil, enraged evil cutting a hole as deep as a bottomless basin in her gut, knowing its plan had been crushed to pieces just like the glass. Before the arrow had a chance to tear through her, the Evil Queen howled and vanished in a puff of black smoke. Its original target nowhere to be found, wood met wood in the door of the magical wardrobe.

Emma cursed under her breath and rushed over to help Snow White up, but the other woman shook her head, cradling her lover in her lap. Snow looked up at her with a tear-stained face. "Who are you?" she said raggedly through wails and sobs, but something new was in her words – something the forest hadn't seen in a long time. Hope.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. She had failed in completing the one task she was born to finish. She was born here, twenty eight years ago, but the name… the name, she couldn't grasp. It was there at the back of her mind, playing hide and seek with her, but she was clueless. She was born to this world as someone… to do something important. Now that the Queen had escaped, the war had just begun. She was the hunter and she was the hunted.

"The—the Swan," she uttered, confusing herself with the words that came out of her mouth. She ran a hand through her hair and nodded, evading Snow White's gaze. She was cursed. "The Seventh Swan."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed towards the giant stairway, ignoring Snow White's pleas, for that was the purpose of a recurve bow – first you shoot and then you run for your life.


	2. Grave of the Fireflies

**Author's Note: **This fic is getting progressively more and more insane. I should take a break from Skyrim because each scene I write reminds me of White Run, and the dragons, don't forget the dragons. ...But yeah, that's pretty much what I'm going for here, so, you know. Cough. I promise there will be some serious Swan Queen in the next chapter. Pinky promise. Then again the story was supposed to walk a completely different path, but my fics live their own life and there's nothing I can do to stop them. You have been warned. Also, I feel really self-conscious about this chapter and a voice at the back of my mind keeps telling me it's not that good, so I might come back to it and change something.. somehow.. or not.

And if you feel like it, listen to Within Temptation's cover of Running Up That Hill, because that's the song that made this happen and it makes me feel like burning some witches.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Grave of the Fireflies<strong>

"Is it true about the Evil Queen? They say she has laid siege on the castle and the prince is severely injured!"

"Aye, the news is spreading faster than a plague. Dark times are upon us, dark times indeed—"

"But there's still hope!"

"There always is with children."

If you stared long enough (or were drunk enough), it almost looked like the forest green cloak had become one with the background, a mossy boulder in the middle of a rocky cave lit by a few lamps laid here and there in such an unsymmetrical pattern you would think the one placing them must have been blind. Surrounding the velvety green, which so delicately sank into the rest of the picture – even more so because it seldom moved – were wooden and occasionally only three-legged chairs (courtesy of the regular inn brawls) and tables and heartbroken laughter and violin strings playing out of tune, apparently having never been replaced with new ones. Whether people or elves or wizards walked in, everyone knew they were walking in on a solemn celebration of their downfall.

"You don't understand, Papa! Corey – the cook's son – he told me there was a cloaked stranger in the palace and that he stopped the Evil Queen with a bow and arrow before the curse could be enacted! The troops are retreating!"

The hunched figure ceased even the last remains of movement when it stopped absentmindedly tracing circles around the single silver coin it possessed – or it would seem so since the table in front of it was the only one that wasn't occupied by a half empty mug of beer.

"Corey has always had a big mouth, Lear; if that were true, where is that hero of yours? Besides, what good is a curseless world when my mill's burnt to cinder and wolves've dragged away my cattle?"

The boulder moved – almost like a tiny, sudden avalanche – and the motion revealed long, wavy blonde hair under the hood, and then a voice so pristine it cut through the air like knife through butter. "But you still have your son; that should be the only thing that matters."

All eyes turned to her. Even the bartender, who had been keeping an eye on this uninvited visitor, tensed up; it was new and unexpected, and the townsfolk had had just enough of new and unexpected for about twenty eight years. She wasn't facing the one she called out directly; the sharp turn of her head only went as far as to let one eye pierce her surroundings while her cloak rested on her shoulders with a certain hint of what could be perceived as grace if you squinted.

"I'm not talkin' to you. The hell do you know about family, skank?" shot back the way-worn bearded man in tattered robes, disdain apparent in his voice. None of those people liked strangers.

The iris went from brightened by determination to sullen and dim in a single blink of an eye without anything else in the inn moving the slightest bit. "Nothing."

"And I think that would be quite enough, dear," a soothing and slightly squeaky voice, one that she hadn't heard yet, said, and was silently grateful for its interference in this exhibition of gregarious laughter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a woman in her forties or fifties, wrinkles gathering at the corners of her eyes as she smiled weakly at the Swan, as if smiling was a crime. "You're making our guest uncomfortable."

"I won't tolerate anyone calling this haggard harlot a guest as long as she keeps acting like she owns the place!" growled the man and slammed a fist on the table.

"I apologize. I'll make my leave," the blonde responded and stood up to do as she said, the cloth tugging violently at her shoulders. She glanced at the little boy – the only child in the tavern – and took in the scruffy ginger hair and the freckles around his nose like snow on a mountain peak and the lonesome tooth sticking out of his mouth. Lear was a child who hadn't seen the world yet; she could see it in the glaze over his eyes and drowned the pity she felt for this boy in her stomach as she walked out the front door, letting it creak and wail in the wind.

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><p>Cold breeze whipped her from all directions and she clung to the cloak for warmth, holding the hems of the hood tightly around her neck. Despite all her efforts, however, she found herself shivering and goose bumps ran down her arms. It had gotten progressively colder over the course of just a few days and the Swan would bet the Queen had something to do with it.<p>

"That is a beautiful bow you've got there, milady. Wherever did you get it?"

She jumped a bit, having been snatched out of her thoughts, and turned around to see the woman from the inn approaching her. "I don't know," she muttered, too confused at the moment to realize the absurdity of those words.

When a hand on her back pushed her forward, it marked the first time she had a destination. "Come; you look like you could use a good fish stew and some water," the woman said and guided her through wide alleyways and huts that looked like someone had cut a template from paper and traced and traced.

"Thank you, but no, thank you. I should head back to… to uh…" she stuttered and was met with a knowing smile.

"We don't bite. Well, except for my husband, at times."

The blonde couldn't help but chuckle at that before giving in to more suspicion. "Why would you help me?"

"Let's just say I believe in fairytales."

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><p>"My husband knows much about bows. The mill was his life, but the hunt is a hobby – and useful at that for when the forest gets a little too close."<p>

She kept repeating the day over and over in her head, trying to figure out just what set of circumstances had made it so that she was wandering through the woods one moment and gulping down a spoonful of fish and broth the next. It didn't make much sense, but she didn't want to seem ungrateful. The Swan had been seated at a table by the wall – coincidentally also the object that attracted the most attention in the room, aside from cupboards filled with tan plates and mugs and the fireplace surrounded by stones. She watched smoke rise through the chimney as she ate.

Her host spoke up once more when there was no response. "Will you at least tell me your name if I introduce myself first?"

"I would and I mean no disrespect, but I don't know what it is." It was the naked truth and she felt drunk with its emptiness, but not drunk enough to lose all sense of morality; just drunk enough to realize you're acting stupid but there's nothing you can do about it.

"I see. Where do you hail from, then?"

"I don't know that either."

The woman refilled her mug with water from the jug and sat down across the table. "You don't know much, child. Perhaps you are lost?"

So many blanks. The Swan ran a hand through her hair, pulling her hood down in the process. She was by no means getting comfortable in this place; she just did so out of common courtesy. "I must be."

"But you don't know."

She nodded, ashamed.

"My son was your age." The puzzled look on the Swan's face made her continue. "Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized for having forgotten that her guest didn't know much. "Lear is an illegitimate child, conceived with a puny maid who died soon after she gave birth to Lear. I couldn't blame my husband for taking that woman even if I had the heart, though. She was young and pretty and, well, it's been a long time since Harry and I knew what we once had. Besides, she's paid enough – may the earth be light on her. I've adopted Lear as my own and called him my son, but I cannot help it; the mother in me sees Geralt in front of her eyes when the word son is said. He was a good lad, always caught up in swordplay or helping me gather ingredients." Not a muscle moved on her face, but her eyes darkened and the blonde knew better than to blame it on the angle of light.

The Swan tilted her head to the side; she didn't understand what she had done in order to provoke this reaction without meaning to in the slightest. It felt odd to hear these public secrets straight from the source, not to mention secrets that delved deep into more than one heart. At the same time, she was confused by her host's tolerance—and lack thereof in other ways.

"Geralt got lost one day, too." The woman in front of her took a deep breath. "When he was but a boy, about Lear's age, he wandered into a troll cave not too far from here. _A troll cave, _by fairy's wing! Oh, the scolding I gave him!" she laughed and tears filled her eyes. "It was like a labyrinth. He had no idea where he was, but Geralt had a gift – he respected all creatures and when he needed it, they came back for him. He waited until dusk, scared, hiding in a corner, and then a firefly flew in and showed him the way out."

The Swan gave her a weak smile when she realized the point of the story. "I sure could use one, but I don't have a personal firefly to light the path for me."

"That's because it's not yet dark outside."

Her brow furrowed into a frown and she processed the information for a while and then cleared her throat. "So what happened… to him?" she said reluctantly, looking up at the other woman the way a stray puppy would, afraid of the answer.

"Geralt had also inherited his father's thick head. He insisted he go out on Night's Dusk to see 'the rumors fall apart'. He was an adult; who was I to make him stay?"

"Night's Dusk?"

"That's what we call the day the curse swept through the country—"

Suddenly, there was a loud thud as the door of the hut was knocked down and both women leapt to their feet as four men in feathery leather armor marched inside. "That's her!" one of them called out, pointing at the blonde woman. Her heart sank to the level of the floor she was standing on and she froze from head to toe.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! There's no need for violence. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding," the other woman cooed and for some reason, the Swan thought asking her about her name would have been a good idea about five minutes prior.

"The Queen doesn't make mistakes! This is the Seventh Swan! And I hereby sentence you to death for protecting an outlaw!" yelled the one who the blonde assumed was the leader of the squad, since there was a cape the color of charcoal hanging on his back. He looked intimidating and most people would never want to mess with him.

The Swan wasn't most people. "Excuse me, hey! Last time I checked, laws had rules to govern them. There needs to be a proper trial, if nothing else!" she said, taking a daring step forward, upon which she was struck down by a powerful slap across the face that stung like a million angry bees.

The guard pulled out a piece of paper and held it in front of him. The word 'WANTED' glared at her and she gulped, scanning downwards to a face she could vaguely remember and the words 'the Seventh Swan' below. "You don't get to speak! Tie her up and kill the other so we can get this over with."

"Wait! No!" It was a nightmare, all of it, a terrible déjà vu, almost like she had been here before. She was mortified and she realized there was no way for her to defend herself because even a master craftsman's bow is no good against four men sparkling with blades from head to toe. It made no sense. The Queen was gone. She had chased her away. Then again, had she really been so gullible as to believe she had rid the world of her for good with all the loss and all the pain, all the stolen treasures and all the vicious beasts lurking about and the appearance of dragons and rumors of werewolves? The murky sky itself had been a bad omen. It was like a dream sequence, one event following another in a succession lacking sanity or purpose—she reached for the bow on her back as a last resort and cried out in pain as one of the guards twisted her arm at a painful angle—light was replaced by darkness in her vision, and then something more, the crimson of blood running down the neck of the woman who had done nothing but let her into her life— "Don't!" she screamed, but it was far too late and the lifeless body fell to the floor. "No!" Her cries pierced the sunset and she struggled to maintain balance, not sure whether the pain on her cheek or the one driving nails through her arm was the better thing to concentrate on—She had never wanted to be the hero; she had never asked for this—She let tears of rage flow freely down her jaw and thrust herself forward with such force she managed to slip out of the guards grip and lunged straight at the one holding the bloodstained knife, all common sense blinded by the scene revolving around her. The guard stumbled a few steps back as she delivered a considerably powerful punch to his face, panting and grunting. She kept hitting him, but her blows were getting slower and her knees weaker until she fell to the floor and the pain of the cut in her side finally settled in.

She stopped convincing herself it must have been a dream when she was dragged out of the house followed by a trail of her own blood and the stares of dozens of bystanders who happened to be walking past. The cloak was no longer a mossy forest green, but instead an abstract painting of red and autumn leaf brown. She thought she caught a glimpse of ginger hair in the upside down blurry world around.

Before it had been an obligation; now it was a vendetta.


	3. I'll Get My Tears Back

**Author's Note:** I am questioning my sanity here. This is pretty much the most disturbing thing I've ever written - and I have written some pretty disturbing things, folks. It is not for the weak of heart and I _swear_ to you, this fic is so NOT going in the originally intended direction. It's dark. As in, really. You have been warned. Proceed with caution. I mean it. It's for your own good. (I have, after all, kind of made myself a little sick with this.)

I assure you all I am completely sane, even though stressing it will probably imply the opposite.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: I'll Get My Tears Back<strong>

Eight legs made their way across the cold marble. Eight tiny, fragile, fluffy legs scurried forward, hurrying to deliver the news. Carefully, one leg stepped onto a vertical obstacle and the others came soon after, defying the force of gravity by climbing steadily upward. The legs walked a twisted trail along the edge of the altar, never stopping to catch their breath.

"What news do you bring?"

A deep, venomous voice spoke before the legs even reached their destination. It was dark and vicious, like an addition to the chorus repeating itself at a ghost carnival, and the melodic theme of the flutes wouldn't change as long as there were vengeful clowns and screaming banshee terrorizing the haunted castle. The spider ran faster, close to tripping over its own eight legs, and the material beneath them flipped into a horizontal position again, and then the road became a bumpy hill of a hand. There was an earthquake without sound as the hand rose and the giant to whom it belonged stood up to a height that terrified her little messenger.

It was dropped onto a fresh web of thousands of strings dense in the center and sparser around the edges. To the spider, the web seemed like a spacious playground and it had to remind itself it was nothing more than a comfortable office. Silk emerged from its spinnerets and it started to weave its message into the web so strong, expertly crafting an image worthy of masters, accurate enough to make artists grow pale and more alluring than a field of butterflies, though that might as well have been because of the content itself. It was patient and meticulous, for it knew its fate would improve with every inch of horror conveyed into the masterpiece.

And the spider was successful indeed; never before had a picture so solid looked so torn. Layered silken threads ran always in only one direction until tens and hundreds formed hair around the face of injustice, tears running down her cheeks and eyes blazing with hatred so great it made the Queen shiver with excitement.

"And the heart?"

This time, the purpose wasn't to amuse, but only to inform. The following picture was nothing but ornate letters under the first. _Beating._

"Perfect."

With that, the giant turned around and walked away, cold marble clicking under her heels, leaving the spider to play freely on the playground.

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><p>The wound had been covered with a cloth hastily tied around her waist, but it was just that, a new shell for the fire underneath so that the world wouldn't have to stand witness to her pain. Maybe if it pretended it had never been there, the wound would disappear. But for the Swan, needles and shivers kept reminding her that that would never happen.<p>

She wasn't sure whether it was the pain that had made her pass out or whether it woke her up. Possibly both. She growled and moved her hand to press the cloth to her side more firmly. It took her a good few seconds before the blonde realized that her arm was still being pulled upward by an invisible force. Having no other option but to open her eyes and check to see whatever it was that prevented her from trying to ease the pain (though really, it would have made no difference), she scowled and opened one eye lazily, lifting her head to see.

The chains around her wrists were enough to make her eyes widen. She blinked and saw that no, she had not been imagining things and every single event of… a frown appeared on her forehead; she had no idea how much time had passed since her visit at the inn. She looked around in panic. There were no windows to help her tell the time, only a wooden stairway leading into blackness. There was no sun to warm her face, only torches burning hot and bright, but instead of comforting her, their fire threatened to scorch her soul. There was no grass under her feet as she kneeled, only rough stone and dirt digging into her skin through her pants. There was no bow on her back to provide a fading hope, only the burden of the cloak painted autumn. There was no company to refresh her memory, only a bare skeleton across the room from her, whose bindings were the same as hers, and even an infant could tell its fingertips were way too short. Its head hung limply on the atlas and rats nibbled at the remnants of rotten meat on its shin. She grew pale as the first snowflakes of winter and shivers ran down her spine.

"Well, well, well," a low voice cut through the air like knife through butter. "Look who's woken up."

Before she could locate its source, there was a hand under her chin, tilting it upward at an almost painful angle so that she could meet the eyes of her captor; none other than the Evil Queen herself, her eyes, hair and dress the same menacing shade of black.

"Who are you?" the Queen inquired, waiting patiently for the answer. She had all the time in the world.

"You know who I am. You had the whole region looking for me," the blonde stated bitterly, never breaking eye contact.

It was the second time during the last few hours someone's palm left an imprint on her cheek. The slap would have brought tears to her eyes had she not forbidden herself to show any signs of weakness as soon as she looked into those hauntingly dark eyes. She had locked the tears away in a chest deep down in the dungeon, much deeper than where she was now, and thrown away the key.

"I said, _who are you?_" asked the Queen again with more emphasis.

"I'm the one who's going to bring you down."

"Tough talk for a swan in chains," the brunette smirked and the way she held her head high made it clear how much she despised the other woman. "I trust my guards have been treating you well?" She gave the blonde a warm, deceiving smile, kneeled to close her hand over the wound and the Swan froze in horror when she found herself unable to shrink away from the touch, and even more so when her first instinct was _not_ to do so. As messed up as it was, the Queen's warmth was the only comfort she could soak in. She stared at her with lucid blue eyes in which fear battled disdain – this was the one who had killed her friend and, apparently, planned doom for all people of this land. Yet still…

That was until, quite unexpectedly, the pain was multiplied several times as the Queen pressed her hand into the cloth, making the blonde yelp. The smile vanished as fast as it had appeared, replaced by a piercing glare. "How did you do it?" she asked, pushing her thumb deeper into the wound until blood seeped through what those brutes might have once called a bandage and ran down the Swan's hip.

The blonde woman grimaced in response, but refused to surrender to the Queen's superiority in any other way. She had been through worse – or had she? "How did I do what exactly?" she growled.

"Well, that depends; there's much behind that pretty little face of yours that I'd like to see. How did you manage to bypass all my guards in the castle, armed and not exactly subtle? How were you able to hide from me for so long afterwards? What are you up to?" The Queen reached out for something to her left and there was a ringing sound. "But most importantly – _Who are you?"_ The Swan turned her head to the side and saw the dagger landing in the brunette's palm. A strange feeling of having her heart ripped out of her chest overcame her senses. Oh, if she only knew. Her heart rate skyrocketed to inhuman heights as cold steel found its way to the small of her neck, staying put in a vertical position and waiting for its owner's command. "You walk in here uninvited –" At first it was just a little pinch— "As if _my_ realm belonged to you—" Then she grit her teeth as the blade painted a straight crimson line down her chest— "And you ruin _everything._" She inhaled sharply through her teeth and held her breath, desperately trying to keep herself from making any kind of noise, gaze lingering on the Queen's eyes. Conscience kept telling her to stop being a stubborn hardass, because all hope of ever getting out of here came and went with the blood on the floor of that house. That was exactly why she had to go on. She had nothing but her pride to lose and she wasn't going to give it up so easily.

The knife dug a little deeper, millimeter by millimeter, and it seemed the flesh presented no obstacle at all.

"I don't know the answer to any of these," the Swan hissed.

_"Lies."_

Another cut next to the first brought tears to her eyes and all determined intention went straight to hell. What did she expect; that the Evil Queen would believe the poor wanderer and mercifully let her go? Naivety at its brightest.

She couldn't see the next one coming through her blurry vision; she could only feel the edge of the blade drawing lines almost as twisted as the Queen herself across her arm.

"I'm telling the truth. I don't know how it happened," she replied again and her voice wasn't the only thing that shook. In fact, her whole body was shivering and her hands were cold, blood flowing all too languidly into her fingertips. She had never felt so helpless in her life, however short or long it had been – she didn't know – not because of the chains around her wrists, color draining from her lips or rosy blood that looked almost like harmless icing on the cake running between her breasts, but because she didn't know why. She could not prove herself innocent for this world was led by presumption of guilt. There was no reason, no escape, and no justification except for the voice at the back of her mind whispering _'This is what you deserve'_. _Ei incumbit probatio qui negat, non qui dicit._

And so, only being restricted on the outside, she cried at her own pitifulness.

A hand brought her chin up and there the Queen was, running a finger over her quivering lips. Through her tears, the Swan looked up, and for a moment, they looked the same; same blank eyes devoid of emotion, same pale faces, same emptiness filling them and flushing all sense of feeling out. For a moment – a tiny, shattered fragment of time – there was the same pity, the same sadness, almost too well hidden to be read. "Everything I've worked for; why did you kill it?" the Queen whispered.

She no longer wanted to disappoint the brunette, but she had no choice but to let her down. "I can't remember," she rasped and knew she had sealed a deal with the devil.

The Evil Queen caressed her cheek with a thumb and let a speck of sympathy crawl into her gaze. "You will break one day," she told her and slowly, delicately drew another line from the blonde's neck across her plain shirt-clad breasts down to her stomach, looking into her eyes the whole time to spot any changes, but none appeared. She couldn't see what she was breaking had already been crushed to pieces.

The Swan's eyes betrayed her, stealing a momentary glance at the stairway to the skies. In the wall above it was a carving, and when she blinked the tears away, she could see two words shining like fireflies in the dark. _Vivat Regina._

It sounded strangely familiar and felt like she had just discovered the piece of the puzzle. The ephemeral spark of joy vanished immediately as she realized one piece was no good when she didn't even know what the final picture was supposed to form. The words faded from her mind; after all, that was all there was. Plain, bare, useless words. Words couldn't save her no matter how much she wanted them to.

After an eternity of excruciating pain, the will to faint had gained enough power to strike; but then, after she had lost all sense of time, the dagger was set aside and sharpness was replaced by soft pads of fingers covering every wound, soothing every one of tens of cuts, some larger than others, and wiping away every tear. And if she had enough common sense left to question her own convictions, she would wonder why the same hands that had inflicted so much suffering upon her – and deep down, she knew it was only the beginning – felt like home on her skin.

With great difficulty, she mustered the strength to ask: "Why?"

"I can't have you dying on me, dear. I need your heart alive."

Just this once, she had a wish.

_I wish…_


	4. Winterhearted

**Author's Note:** I'm so sorry for how long it took me to upload. I've been attacked by a vicious and unrelenting beast that's clawing on my back whenever I try to write. Apparently, it's called writer's block. Then suddenly, I was bored in French class and my Czech brain tried to form some English sentences. I still hope you haven't forgotten this story yet (hah!) and will enjoy it nonetheless. (And again I feel like I've crossed a line, but I guess that's what I always think and then realize I really didn't do anything at all.)

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Winterhearted<strong>

Listen and run, run and listen. Keep listening, keep running. The castle was a gray rainbow painted monochrome by the claws of darkness.

Don't let yourself get distracted; it's a luxury you cannot afford. Just fly.

Butterfly wings fluttered above her head. "Princess Snow! Princess Snow!"

The brunette awoke with a jerk and supported herself against the side of the bed to regain balance. Dark circles under her eyes spoke a thousand words she, in her stubbornness, would never let escape her mouth. Matted hair fell on her shoulders, refusing to stay put and sticking out in all directions. It had acquired a peculiar but most bothersome quality, bearing a resemblance to many separate braids branching out into coal rivers without any effort having been wasted to make it so.

"What is it, Tink?" the woman asked and anyone with sense of perception good enough to distinguish warm from cold could tell from her absentminded expression that the fairy's distress was the least of her worries.

The thin wings fluttered faster as if trying to express the urgency of the message. "I heard a wish unlike any I've ever heard before, princess," she blurted out and circled Snow's head two times. "It was strong and unrelenting – almost deafening – Princess, it was the savior's wish!" She traced another halo above Snow's head and the princess looked like a Pietà cradling her dead Jesus next to the sleeping James. Snow White sprang to attention and her eyes shimmered like fallen icicles in white cotton. "What did she wish for?"

Tinker Bell's green leafy dress whistled as she sat down on her friend's shoulder, delicately, basking in the irony of the fact that Snow in her fragility, although much hardier at first glance, might be the one to shatter. "Hope."

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><p>"I'm sorry."<p>

She had been repeating it for so many times the collocation had lost all meaning for the Seventh Swan. Sometime in the past, apologies used to be the one spark of vulnerability she used to allow herself to display for the sake of making things right. Apologies – expressions of regret – had been the last attempts to make painful memories subside and fade before their time comes; not hers, but recollections of the ones she had hurt. This time, apologies were vain, miserable tries to catch and hold onto that one last straw of hope.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated again when steel met skin but her voice was a still, emotionless river.

Her hair was painfully pulled back and she found herself face to face with the Queen. _"Who are you?"_

The words sounded all the same. The Swan was oblivious to her requests because by then, the only thing she could hear was _apologize if you value your life,_ echoing through her head so loudly it felt like a thousand church bells chiming in her ears. She honestly didn't know why, but her spontaneous reaction suggested she did not take this life for granted. For some incomprehensible reason, she pushed forward in her efforts, again and again crying "I'm sorry." Dry salty brooks ran pale down her face and she could no longer gather the will to mean what she was saying. "I'm sorry." Warm blood dripped from a fresh cut that connected her collarbones, providing twisted comfort to the freezing skin lacking feeling underneath. "I'm sorry." Looking into her eyes, even the distant, winterhearted Queen recognized the absent grayness she saw.

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><p>"Assemble the Council, Tink. Tell Grumpy to ring the bells; we need every spare hand."<p>

Soon the castle was abuzz; Tinker Bell's wings fluttered here and there as she hurried to carry out Snow's wishes. More than anyone, she knew there was little time to waste as not only had she heard the wish, but she could also sense the circumstances. Much like on the day the curse struck the land, warriors and mages, dwarves and fairies, even simple friends gathered around the round table and waited for their princess to silence the chatter with a wave of her hand, except this time, one person was missing in the crowd.

"Snow, calm down. We need to think this through. There is no way we can rescue her if we just barge in there with swords and flails in hand like a bunch a' barbarians," grumbled Grumpy under his breath.

"Maybe we don't have to – we need a distraction."

"Distractions are for dwarves like Stealthy – dead dwarves. Let's get back to the fighting thing," he growled and punched the surface of the table at his own mention of his dead comrade.

A voice called out from the sea of heads and colors. "Do you even have the right to decide this without the prince?" Suspicious whispers and shouts followed; _'Does she?' 'When is prince James coming back?' 'Whose fate are we compromising today?'_

"During his absence, I am to make all decisions that will affect _our_ kingdom and its residents in his place," Snow answered, unfazed, holding her chin high. "Besides, she saved my life, yours, and possibly the lives of all in the land, and didn't even get a grain of gratitude for her deeds. It is our _duty_ to return the favor."

"Snow, if I may," interrupted Tink, hovering in front of her, and waited for a nod of approval from the brunette. "There is much more to it than that. If the Queen gets the Swan's heart, we will all face the same danger we were once saved from. Time is of the essence; she needs her heart to re-enact the curse and she'll stop at nothing to get it."

Snow's brow furrowed in a frown. Her stepmother had had an unhealthy obsession with hearts, but as far as Snow had noticed, there was no order in it. There was no order anywhere around the Queen; only chaos. "Why hers?"

"She ripped out the heart of the thing she loved most the first time. Now that that attempt has essentially been wasted, all she feels is anger – a rage so relentless, so merciless, spurred by her own breaking – as unbelievable as it may seem. All this hate has run loose, directed at the one person who stole her pride. She's balancing on the thin line between love and hate because of the Swan, so it's only fitting she should be the one to fill the void. Love and hate are both equally powerful forces, ones that can pay double the cost of magic. Ultimately, her power has only grown."

And again the whispers, frightened whispers, gasps and cries shook the solemn atmosphere of the room. Clutching a basket, Red Riding Hood squeezed her grandma's shoulder.

Snow White's eyes closed as she contemplated her options, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I know her ways. She isn't going to _just_ rip out her heart; if it were that simple, she would have been dead before she could even make a wish – and all of us would go along with her. The Queen wants to project her feelings into this woman. She wants to break her first so that her revenge can be complete." Unexpectedly, tears welled up in her eyes and a jabbing pain swirled in her chest at the mere vision of such boundless cruelty. She couldn't allow that to happen, not to her – their savior – whoever she was – she trusted her. "Tink, you're the one to fulfill wishes. You must have an idea what we can do."

"The Queen's magic is strong, but so is mine. If we can convince the genies to cover the Queen's castle in a mist of illusion, maybe we can fool her long enough for the Swan to escape. However, the stronger the aid, the higher the price."

"Leave that to me," Snow responded firmly, a familiar glimmer of determination in her eyes. "I'm good at bargaining; they'll think twice before jeopardizing a mission to save all of our lives."

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><p>High heels paced back and forth and dark curls of cloth followed close behind. She just couldn't wrap her mind around how someone could appear without warning and turn the tables with impunity. All the hard work, the deals – in vain. In merely trying to delived justice, the Queen had initiated her own doom.<p>

But there would be punishment. The culprit would suffer at no other hands than her own. She would pay a thousand times for all the ones she had wrongfully saved without having any idea of their wretched sins. It was only fair.

Finally, the Queen came to a halt, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply as if she were listening to the dungeon's silence, talking to it, luring it. The castle provided her with serenity, soothing her rage when nothing else could. The silence enveloped her, whispering in her ear: _'Look at her.'_ Her eyes snapped open.

Maybe that was part of why she always surrounded herself with pain. Living beings simply looked more beautiful when broken and fragile. There was an exquisitely tragic quality to their pitifulness that made blood run faster in her veins.

Having seen wounds open and close repeatedly on the same body, all-encompassing darkness was looming over the Swan's eyes darkened by exhaustion and blissful apathy. Just another reason for the Queen's hatred; what she had been trying to avoid for as long as anyone could remember, her pathetic nemesis had embraced. The Seventh Swan was a display of pure, ultimate, irrefutable acceptance.

It was a sight to behold.

"What is it that makes you resist me even when you've lost everything?" It was now genuine curiosity, not boiling anger speaking. What was the secret to this woman's untouchability, she had to know. There was no answer; but an idea, yes.

She knelt before the younger woman, cradling the Swan's face in her hands, and wrinkles formed valleys on her forehead. "You must be tired, you poor, poor thing," she cooed, her voice dripping honey and sugar. "I can make it go away, dear," she continued, brushing a strand of wet hair (whether it was blood, tears, dirt or sweat or a mixture of all of the above, one couldn't tell) behind the blonde's ear. "Although it is in my power, this doesn't have to go on forever. Give yourself to me and I will ease your pain. Give me what I want and I will make it go away." For the first time in hours, their gaze met, and remains of the Queen's heart skipped a beat in ecstasy at the silent promise of extinguishing this newfound glimmer of hope. The question didn't have to be voiced in order to be heard. As if on cue, the Queen leaned in and gently pressed her lips to the Swan's.

Just a whiff, just a taste; and she tasted like blood and leaves of vanilla, oh so sweet. The touch was intoxicating. Perhaps it was her lack of strength that made the Swan show no resistance; perhaps she couldn't feel it at all. The Queen didn't allow herself to get too used to the feeling, didn't let the warmth linger and pulled away out of fear of being poisoned. It had always been too easy for her to get caught up in a moment, so whenever she felt that familiar fire in her gut burning at the sight of scarred beauty – such as wronged victims, or even past lovers as bitter betrayal shone in their eyes – she would be careful to restrain herself and put it out before it was too late. It broke her heart over and over again, gazing upon naked wounds bleeding, and at the same time, it took her breath away.

Time stopped as a smile spread across her face, warm and inviting, almost as if she were trying to substitute the cold dungeon with an illusion, turn stone to wood and breeze to a fireplace. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want – I _need_ the truth so I can be happy again. I don't think that makes me evil," she whispered, her face a mask of concern as she supported the blonde's chin with her middle and index finger. "Do you?"

Sure enough, she must have done something unspeakable, the Swan thought, if the horrors she was being put through were to serve as a medium for happiness. Tears welled up in her eyes long, long after she started thinking the Queen had sucked her dry. "No."

The brunette's smile broadened. "Good." She brought her lips to her victim's ear to murmur a soft whisper; "I'll show you how good I can be to you, if you let me."

Her hand ran from cupping her face southward, down the Swan's neck and between her breasts, much like the ever-wandering blade had. But it didn't stop there, no – nails clawing at her shirt and pulling at the strings that ran over one another in crosses and tied the two halves of the cloth together, it roamed lower still, until it reached its destination between the blonde's legs, caressing the younger woman through the fabric. Her lips curled into a twisted half-grin at the sudden sharp intake of breath echoing in her ears. She moved slowly, methodically, pressing down every now and then, and listened as the Swan's breathing got progressively faster. "Doesn't this feel better, now?" she hummed, planting a feather light kiss on the Swan's smooth jawline. "Doesn't it?"

A soft moan that escaped the blonde's lips involuntarily served as her answer.

The sound of boots clicking on the stone tiles disturbed this mostly quiet little conference. "My Queen," saluted the head of the castle guard upon entering.

"What is it?" the Queen responded without as much as a turn of the head to take a look at the newcomer; instead her hand moved to sneak into the Swan's brown leather pants. "I told you I was not to be disturbed under _any circumstances_." She was no longer sugar and honey. Now her words sounded like deadly poison seeping through her body, looking for everybody's weakest spot, and the transition was so rough that if the Swan didn't know better – or could stop to think about it at all – she would have thought there was another person in their presence. But she was tired, oh so tired of assumptions, conclusions and the sharp jab in her lungs whenever she tried to breathe.

"My deepest apologies, my Queen, but Gur'hak the troll requests your audience. He says he has brought you Snow White as a sign of good will, but shan't let us see her without speaking with your majesty first. He's awaiting your reply in the dining room."

The Queen sprang to attention, kneeling frozen before the prisoner with the tips of her fingers disappearing mysteriously under the other woman's belt. Her breath felt like a thousand cactus needles on the blonde's neck for an eternity while she hung, limp and praying in some remote, distant part of her consciousness.

"Pity." The metaphorical clock struck midnight.

"My Queen, I must advise you—"

"Silence, you fool. I know as well as you do that the chances of him speaking the truth are slim. But Gur'hak has never meant me harm and his goods have always been top notch quality. I'm interested in what he has to offer." With that she half-heartedly stood up, turned on her heel and departed together with the guard in black armor, leaving the Swan dismissed in a place where her only desire was to numb the pain and fall into slumber.

Tears streamed down her face anew, for it was only now that she was truly alone, abandoned to the wolves of her scarred heart.


End file.
